Losing Control: 2

by Tina Donahue

  “Stay where you are,” he panted to Garon and Bastian before either of them could move. Tim especially wanted Garon to keep holding her wrists so she couldn’t touch him.

  If Catherine caressed him now, Tim figured he wouldn’t be able to endure their future separation…in less than three days. They’d already used up an hour or more.

  Fuck. Why did it have to come to this? Why couldn’t she have been exactly who she’d said? Why’d he have to find out at all? Right now, Tim would have given several years of his life to return to blissful ignorance, believing all that she’d claimed, loving all that she was.

  She stirred beneath him, not trying to get away, but rather pushing her body closer to his. Because she needed that or because she thought he expected it?

  “Good?” she murmured.

  She damn well knew it had been for both of them. His wheezing proved it, as did her pussy’s wild contractions around his cock. No fucking way any woman could fake that. Rather than answer her question—or ask one of his own and say something he’d most likely regret—Tim rubbed his nose against her collarbone, disappointed that she smelled of the scented oil rather than herself and him.

  Quietly, she sighed.

  He tried to interpret the sound. Was it one of contentment? Or was she wondering when he’d be hard again? Even worse, was she comparing him to other men?

  Don’t fucking go there. Just enjoy this.

  He couldn’t. He wanted to be hugged, imprisoned within her gentle embrace, assured there would always be more.

  Not allowing himself to indulge in such a pointless fantasy, Tim gathered what strength he had left and released himself from her.

  Catherine’s expression said she hadn’t expected that. Watchful, she regarded him as he left the table. The breeze whispered against his cock, still wet with her moisture, his cum.

  “Let go of her,” he told the men.

  They did so immediately, each taking a step back.

  “No, don’t leave,” he next ordered them, not adding why, then offered her his hand.

  Catherine didn’t hesitate as he’d expected. She behaved as she had that evening they’d gone to the nightclub, believing that he wouldn’t hurt her. She could trust him.

  That and her willingness to do whatever he wanted humbled and confused Tim, until he recalled that he’d paid for her submission to all he desired.

  Was that all this was?

  He refused to think about it. “Face the table,” he said, more dispassionate than he felt. “Bend at the waist, lift your ass, spread your legs.”

  She blushed as she hadn’t before, a genuine response. Given that and her demeanor, Catherine knew what was coming. Tim expected her to protest because of the other men’s presence. She did not. She offered him that same fake, maddening smile he’d seen after she’d departed the copter. A working girl’s artificial lust.

  It only strengthened Tim’s determination to reach deeper, to mark her where no other man had.

  Assuming the position, she lifted her ass, making her anus accessible to him.

  He told Bastian to bring him a condom and the oil. A gull hovered close, suspended by the breeze, regarding them without judgment. Garon moved next to Bastian, both men taking in the scene, their accelerated breathing and the outline of their thickened cocks betraying their excitement.

  Tim swirled the oil around her tight pink ring, then eased his finger inside. Catherine inhaled sharply at the gentle violation. He continued, using this part of her as he willed, for as long as he wanted. She offered no objection, not even when the minutes kept ticking by. She arched her back even farther, delivering herself to him.

  Taking full advantage of her invitation, Tim finally rolled the condom up his length, which was now thankfully hard, and mounted her, burrowing into her inch by blessed inch.

  Damn. She was so tight and fucking hot, he had an overwhelming desire to laugh, to make some kind of sound to express his joy. On an urge he couldn’t resist, he leaned over, lacing his fingers through hers, imprisoning her gently.

  A rush of air escaped her as it had earlier. This sigh sounded pleased and made him even harder, his body eager to use hers. Tim restrained himself, fearful that his enthusiasm might cause her harm.

  When he made no further move, Catherine finally ran her thumbs over his. An unconscious reaction? Or was it a measure of affection, no different from when she’d held his hand or snuggled against him those few times they’d gone out?

  Had she been playacting then or had her responses to him been authentic?

  He wanted to believe they were. What other choice did he have? Admit that he was only one of many? Uh-uh. No fucking way. He was a lot of things, but never a masochist. His sorrow was still so fresh that at times it hurt for him to breathe. Better not to ponder what he wasn’t able to change and take what he could, beginning now.

  Tim eased his hand from hers so he might rub her clit. Catherine stopped him, gripping his fingers as though she needed that intimacy more than she did another orgasm.

  If they had been the same lovers as before, prior to him discovering her lies, he might have asked for her preference. Not willing to risk a less-than-authentic response, he said nothing. He allowed her to hold on to him as he rode her.

  The pressure and heat of her body, its female allure, wouldn’t allow him to curb his carnal hunger. He climaxed almost immediately, making sounds that seemed mournful to him because he’d come too fast.

  Catherine squeezed his fingers as if she understood his distress.

  Tim huffed out a sigh. He didn’t want her compassion or pity, he needed honesty and trust, which he feared he wouldn’t get. Pulling his hand from hers, he finally concentrated on stroking her nub, demanding her climax.

  It took her less time than it had him. When she shuddered and made noises he was all too familiar with, he slipped his fingers inside her cunt, mollified at its faint pulsing. Her newest orgasm had been as legitimate as the last, not a fabrication.

  Overcome with gratitude he couldn’t deny, Tim whispered, “Thank you.”

  Catherine went still, not seeming even to breathe. Out of surprise at his comment or was she bracing herself against hurt because she didn’t believe he was thankful at all?

  He recalled their argument. It seemed to have happened decades ago or just a few minutes before, it was still that raw. He remembered the outrage on her face, the sadness too. Some of what she’d said returned now. That she’d slept with him because she’d wanted to. She wasn’t after his money.

  Not for the first time, Tim wished he’d been born poor so nothing could have come between her and him. However, if he’d been destitute, they never would have met. As shitty as these last weeks had been, never having known her would have been far worse.

  She sighed deeply as if concurring.

  The gentle sound reached Tim’s heart, easing it open a little more. He kissed her shoulder, damp with perspiration. Strands of her hair clung to it. “Tired?”

  Catherine cleared her throat and murmured, “I’m however you’d like me to be.”

  Aw hell, they were back to that? Her reminding him of why she was really here? “Screw what I’d like. Are you tired, Catherine? Give me an honest answer.”

  “Would you believe me, Mr. Bellamy?”

  No way was he taking her bait. No way would he argue. Tim released his cock from her, removing the condom, dropping it on the sand. Bastian and Garon watched Catherine, not him, their focus on her nudity, her bawdy position. Ignoring them, Tim pulled her away from the table and lifted her into his arms, his disappointment and irritation returning his strength, fueling it.

  Despite that Mr. Bellamy shit, Catherine snuggled into him, her arm around his shoulder, her palm on his chest. “What are you doing?”

  “Carrying you to the house.”

  “It’s a long way.” She regarded the distance, the stairs. “I can walk.”

  “So can I.” If it killed him, he’d manage it. “And this is what I w
ant to do. We’re here to have fun, no bad shit or baggage from before, just good hard sex. Lots of it. Got it, Ms. Oliver?”

  Color stained her cheeks. For once, she appeared speechless.

  Thank you fucking God. The trek wasn’t easy. It was fucking impossible on the ever-shifting sand. Catherine gasped a few times, no doubt fearful he’d drop her as he lurched forward like a drunk rather than a man who had his shit together. At last, Tim put Catherine back on her feet, grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the stairs, then up them. Only when they were in the house did Tim remember he was nude. Thankfully, none of the female staff was about.

  He led Catherine up the stairs to the second floor and lifted her into his arms again—because that’s what he damn well wanted to do—then carried her down the long hall into the master bath. It was a spacious room painted pink with green trim, boasting scores of windows opened to the sweetly scented breeze and sun. While catching his breath, Tim ran a bath. He joined Catherine in the large claw-footed tub, bathing her in the warm water.

  He concentrated most on her breasts, easing the soapy bubbles over them. At length, she whimpered in what sounded like appreciation, then murmured, “I should be doing this to you.”

  “You can’t. I don’t have boobs.”

  A laugh—honest and delightful—erupted from her. Quickly, she squelched it and dipped her hand into the tepid water to touch his heavy sex. “No kidding.”

  He inhaled sharply at her touch, loving it and their sudden playfulness. “You’re happy about that?” he teased.

  She regarded him for a long moment, then brought back her hand and spoke quietly. “I’m game for anything.”

  Tim didn’t want her to remind him of that. The subject was too dangerous. “How’s school going?”

  She stopped scooping water onto her chest to rinse off the soap. “School?”

  Oh hell, she couldn’t have lied about that too. “Yeah. Your master’s program. Remember?”

  “The courses haven’t started yet. Not ’til next week.”

  Right. He’d known that. He’d checked the schedule before contacting Alexa about setting up this date, wanting to make certain Catherine had no excuse for saying no. “Excited about going back?”

  She looked uneasy for a moment, then murmured, “It’s a heavy workload…what with everything else.”

  She meant her appointments with agency clients, all those late night assignations, leaving another man’s bed to return to her own at dawn. Why did she keep bringing it up, pushing it in his face? Wasn’t there anything safe he could say?

  Better to keep his mouth shut.

  Tim left the tub and offered his hand. She accepted it. He never doubted she would, though not for the right reasons.

  Water rolled down her torso and dripped from her fingers, plopping on the puddle at her feet. She reached for a towel.

  Gently, Tim pushed her hand away. “I’ll do it.”

  He wrapped her in the oversized terry cloth, using it to ease her close, keep her to him. They stood like that for a long time, neither of them speaking, though there were quite a few sighs. Long and lengthy.

  To him, the sounds they made sounded defeated, sad. Talk to me, please. Tell me…what?

  He didn’t know. Were there any words to make this better? If there were, he couldn’t find them. “I’m sorry” didn’t seem sufficient. “I love you…I think I’ve always loved you” was out of the question. She’d never believe it and he couldn’t allow himself to get that deep. Not again.

  Silently, he blotted her dry, sinking to his knees to take care of her legs. More than once, he had to keep himself from pressing his face to her belly, wrapping his arms around her, holding tight, revealing the depth of his need.

  She ran her fingers through his hair. Surprised at the tender gesture, Tim lifted his face, expecting her to be looking at him. She was and wasn’t, her gaze turned inward to her own thoughts. About what?

  He waited for her to tell him.

  Catherine didn’t. She blinked slowly as if coming out of a trance or a memory, then glanced in the direction of the bedroom, footfalls causing the hardwood floors to squeak.

  Before she got the wrong idea as she had at the massage table, Tim said, “The staff’s setting up our meal.”

  “Garon and Bastian?”

  “No.” A stab of jealousy pushed him to his feet. “Why? Did you want them here?”

  Catherine studied him. “Do you?”

  He tossed the towel aside and took another smaller one, wrapping it around his hips. Catherine watched without comment and didn’t protest when he again took her hand. Tim led her past their bamboo bed—draped in mosquito netting that gave it a mysterious and romantic feel—to the balcony.

  There, two older women, who’d been with his family for decades, gave him their pleasant smiles and finished their work. At the sound of them closing the bedroom door, Tim removed the towel, dropping it on his chair.

  The sun hung low in the sky, bathing everything in its golden haze. Sailboats glided across the water’s glassy surface. A faint outline of the moon was already visible. Vegetation danced in the breeze as did the flames of numerous glass-enclosed candles on their table. A bird squawked, interrupting the surf’s steady whoosh.

  The early evening had a honeymoon feel about it, not the beginning of the end.

  Their first day was nearly over, only two more to go.

  Pained at the thought, Tim pulled out Catherine’s chair, offering it to her, needing something to do.

  She regarded tonight’s fragrant and enticing fare of ropa vieja, plantain fritters, squares of coconut, slices of mango, escabeche and other local dishes, along with wine, beer and hard liquor.

  A feast that gave them whatever they wanted. None of it being what they—or rather he—truly required.

  Tim poured her a glass of white wine, knowing she liked it the best, gratified he knew that little about her. She stopped him before he could mix his usual scotch and soda, performing the task instead.

  He held onto her fingers a bit longer than necessary as she handed him the glass. “Thanks.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  Hell. If they were any more polite to each other, he’d be breaking things, pounding his fists on the walls. He wanted reckless, uninhibited, wild, honest. More than anything, he craved her love and his belief that her feelings were true.

  She lifted a wedge of mango and drew the end over his lips, a provocative taunt. “You hungry?”

  Tim wrapped his fingers around her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. “I am. Are you, Catherine?”

  She whispered, “Yes.”

  “For what?” he asked.

  She wanted his regard, tenderness and what she thought might have been his love before he’d discovered the truth. Too late for that now. Even though he hadn’t expected or wanted Garon and Bastian to join in the acts on the beach, even though he’d ordered them to leave until she’d demanded they stay, Catherine suspected their presence had been twofold. First, to add a level of wantonness to the scene—the wild she liked—then to remind her of what she couldn’t forget. She was bought and paid for, a female far removed from Tim’s world. The women in it didn’t screw anyone for money. They fucked for the pure hell of it and no one faulted them for such a decision.

  Thinking of that and the trust they’d lost in each other, she answered the only way she could. She directed Tim into his chair, then sat on his lap, facing him. With her cunt snuggled against his cock, Catherine fed him the mango, a square of coconut and a forkful of the ropa vieja—spicy, shredded beef.

  Tim washed it down with his drink. She sipped hers, then kissed him deeply, her mouth lingering on his, encouraging him to neck with her, wanting this to last.

  It didn’t, of course. The setting sun turned the ocean into liquid gold. When she didn’t speak during their meal, Tim did, filling their silence with what he expected to happen during the upcoming legislative season, the arrival of new lawmakers,
the problems that would solve or create. He asked her about school again, the coursework she’d soon be taking.

  At last, they conversed easily, because they did so as strangers. Nothing personal. Nothing that could wound. Catherine hated it. Repeatedly, she had to push her heartache away.

  Tim drank more than she’d seen him do in the other times they’d been together, finishing his third glass. Clearly relaxed, he opened his mouth as if ready to blurt something, then closed it again, no doubt thinking better of it. She picked at her dinner, not hungry in the least despite the delicious dishes.

  Sporadic lights on the nearby islands indicated the houses there. Were the men and women inside happy? Were they with someone they loved? An occasional ship’s horn cut through the relative quiet. The wind picked up, damp from the sea, cooled by it.

  “Time for bed,” he said.

  Like the call girl she was, Catherine allowed Tim to lead her into the bedroom. Like the woman she wanted to be, she gave herself to him fully.

  The liquor he’d had didn’t affect his performance at all. If anything, it made him greedier for sex. Three times he took her, all in the missionary position so they’d be facing each other. Not once did he glance away, studying her face in the candlelight instead. Trying to gauge her reaction to his lovemaking, the sincerity of it?

  Probably.

  He fell asleep on his back, his forearm over his eyes, the tuft of hair in his pit rich with his scent.

  Catherine wanted to bury her face in that part of him and his sex. She wanted to burn into her mind forever the warmth of his skin, the bite of his bristly cheeks, his protective strength.

  It was over. Why hadn’t she seen that back in the District? Why had she come here at all? This was harder than she’d guessed it would be. Being with him for a moment in the present, but never a part of his future wasn’t something she could endure.

  They’d never been meant to be together, having come from different backgrounds, different life experiences.